Rage
by kieran.drapper
Summary: This guy is a phycopathic killer and he gets infected and turns into a monster where he is then hunted down by the government. He tries to change his ways,


Blood Neck - Rage

It is only because memories are limited, that I tell my story using both the knowlage that I have earned and the feelings that I have stolen. Memories are meerly pure truths, such of which that, like the wonders of the universe, they never lie. When being lied to by your own subchonchous point of view, it is only ever because you are afraid to accept reason, that your mind turns against itself in the first place. In event, to turn your head and to speak the horrors of which bestow before a blink. And if you are the one demanding the blink, then who is the one creating the false memory?The very same person who is hiding from it. And i've come to learn that in life, right from the first gasp of birth, we are all really hiding from our memories. People say that memories are to be kept for a lifetime. And that they will, because they are common goods. But regardless of the good and the bad, it somewhat stands to reason, that everybody who is anybody eventually turns their back on the ugly. I have been told many times by my mother, that I was the most happiest baby that she'd ever seen. She'd told me that I never flinched, nor did I dare shed a tear. Of course I don't believe it - surely every new born must cry at birth - but I'll go with what is said. It's almost as if she's right here now, holding me in her arms, and I am an undergon innocent new born with not a secret to hide in the world. Looking up at her, I begin to gurgle and to moan. My voice is high in pitch and sharp in tone, as I cannot talk and am three minutes old. I feel wet streaks of salty liquid flood down the side of my face and invade the privacy of my mouth, and my eyes widen without shock as I see that mother also cries. She is crying not because she is proud of herself with such an achievment, but instead because she has realised that time has passed her by. She has taken on a whole new experience, and soon it should take on her. But of course I didn't know any of this at the time. The only thing I knew was that this was an exciting, terrifying and mysterious place for me and that no matter what, this strange red headed lady would protect me. I could see it in her eyes. Because she has no choice now. And I was right. For the next eight years she and a man I'd learn to call "Daddy" would raise me side by side. They'd sit with me at night and read untill I'd fall asleep. They'd bathe me when needed, and prepare me food when I became hungry and irritant. They loved me like their own, because of course, I was their own. But they did not get along. Every night I'd hear screaming in my dreams. Daddy didn't seem to like the woman, Mummy. From such a young age, the names Daddy and Mummy seemed strange. Why was I called Ethan and not Eathy? Was it some kind of trick? Some kind of coding technique? I did not know. But I adressed them as these chosen names regardless, not because I was scared of Daddy's hits, but also because I respected him. I respected them both. The day before my ninth birthday, was the last day I'd seen either of them alive. I'd hardly saw Daddy whilst growing up because he'd always been out. Working and drinking, Mummy had told me. He came back late. By seven years old, I began to address him as father and understood why I couldn't address either of them by their proper names. I saw Mummy most of the time, more often around the time of her death. I learned to call her Mother. It is rather early in the morning, and I am sitting at the breakfast table, my fingers tapping at the wood. Mother is standing infront of the cooker, gently jolting the frying pan. She has told me that she is cooking me bacon. "Mother, what do you think I'll be when I'm all grown up?" I asked. A pause. After quite some time, she turned from the cooker and smiled at me. Her bright red hair almost seemed to make her bruses shine. Slowly she strode towards me and bent down to reach the hight of the chair I was sitting on. She stared at me for a couple of moments and smiled. Finally, she said "Ethan... I think, when you grow up, you are going to be one of the most successful people that the world has ever seen. I can see your name in big bright lights all over New York. I can see you as so much... So much. What do you think honey? Do you think you'll become famous one day?". I grinned at her. "Prolly will". She let out a burst of laughter. It was a plesant sound. One I hardly ever heard. And so I said no more, but instead enjoyed this rare gift. But then she said something strange. It was so random, that I felt an instinct to let out a small yelp of confusion. "Ethan, do you think I'm crazy?". I shook my head slowly, but long enough as to make it an excuse. "You want to hear a secret? Your daddy thinks I am. I know he's seeing other women, and I don't care. He thinks I'm a joke. Just a joke. You don't think I'm a joke do you?". Again, I slowly shook my head, but with an urge not to blink this time. I didn't want to know any of this. I wanted to get away from her right now, but I felt like I was somehow surgically glued to her presence. I couldn't move. I couldn't even talk. All I could do was stare into those huge, intimidating eyes. Nothing else. "Well nevermind about that," Mother broke the silence. "Eat your breakfast and hurry up and brush your teeth. I'll drive you to school today, alright sweety?" She used a spatular to slap a couple of rashers on a plate, next to two slices of buttered toast, then passed it to me and walked out of the room. It should be assumed that my reaction would consist only of stealth. It wouldn't be queer if I had just sat there, staring at the grease infested strips of meat. Infact, in some very specific ways, it would be absolutly necessary. And so because I was so young in age, and because my actions would reflect on what I thought about them, I didn't realise how odd the previous conversation with my mother had just been. Leading from this, I did not delay, and instead decided to eat my prepared breakfast with an excessive amount of gluttony and an excessive amount of greed. I enjoyed it, as I had intended to, thinking of absolutly nothing else.

School has never been much fun to me. I've always seen my attendence as a sort of false respect. Yes, I respect mother and father, but the only reason I turn up to school is because I have no choice. If I had a choice, I wouldn't be here. I need my levels and my grades, so I go. But I don't respect the teachers. Or the government. Or most of the other students here. So I don't see the point. I'd be better off home schooled. The window of mothers red cannyenaro is grim with dust. Staring through the glass, I sigh as we near the building. This place is nothing but misery for me. I never seem to learn much anyway. Sure, I'm a good kid. I never get in trouble. But most of what they teach us seems like complete and utter nonsence. School should be banned. "See you at three, okay?" Mother says as the car steadied to a slow halt. "Kay, mum!" I opened the car door and jumped out onto the concrete. "Oh, sweety!" Mother calls out. "I got you this". She takes a large brown bag from the backseat and pulls out from it a huge orange box. On the box are green block letters spelling Jumbonater! along with a picture of an american styled black football. "Woah mum! You got me a JUMBONATER!? Where'd you get it?". I'm exctatic! How could she have offorded this? She grins at me playfully. "I stole it, alright?" She whispers. "But don't tell anyone. See you after school, babe". And with that she slams the car door shut and starts the engine. The back of the car begins to rumble for several seconds until the entire veichle drives off down the road. Recently I've been worrying about mother. Since several months ago, hundreds of theories and hypothosies have been ordering themselfs chronologically in my head. And yet to every lone idea draws no conclusion to the concept of what is happening to her. Could she be mentally ill? Maybe she was abducted and brainwashed by aliens. Secretly, I know the answer. It is an answer I have been dreading to admit. It is the answer to why she hardly ever smiles anymore. And to why she always seems to sob into her arms. It is the reason for the cuts on her wrists, and for the attention I am payed. The unfortunate truth of Margret Brindle, the answer behind the tears, is because, quite simply, she is sad. She is lonley and she is depressed. She has been for a while. And she is changing. Getting worse. And I have this idea, that one day, like a stand under too much pressure, she will break. She will collapse under her own doing, and destory all of what she is worth. And it is this idea, this sick and painful truth, that brings me to my knee's and breaks my heart. Because I love my mother. And I wouldn't care if she was the most twisted and uglyest thing that dare step foot on the earth. I'll always love my mother.

Being alone when the bell rings is one of the worst things about school. I have friends, but I feel I'm not cool enough to hang around with them, so I don't. They ussally come and find me anyway though, which I feel is a sort of debt, owed by order and chaos. Because I am always feeling lonley, the universe thinks I have to have friends. But I don't. Nobody has to have friends. I feel that everybody needs to have friends. And I don't. So in all fairness, I am lonley, and I don't want to have friends. Which is where the debt is paid. In math class, my teacher being an overweight scott we call , I sit at the back of the class on the very last row - because I don't apreciate the attention. "So, if we carry the one, and plus X..." pauses, awaiting a volontry answer. When nothing comes, he goes for second best "We plus the X... And then we... Break it down with the grid method! Come on guys, put some more effort into it would ya? I know math a'int the most exciting subject, but it really is one of the most important. I'm telling ya. In eighteen years time, you'll think back to this day and say, aw I wish I had listened to that . He really did want the best for me." A calculated prediction roughly sums up the conclusion that not one of the kids here will ever stop to think about in a positive way. The truth is, he isn't a very popular guy. I don't think he's very popular with other teachers either - I hear them in the staff room sometimes. He always seems to look like he walked into a primary scool one day and could never find his way out. Poor fat bastard. He's got another 30 years at best. "Right - Err - The bell rings in, like, 2 minutes, so you should probably start packing away. Any pencils or pens borrowed are to be returned back to the front."

Break time has just begun. I feel as though I need to enjoy some solitude, and have some serious thinking about mothers actions earlier on. In the rain I now stand, leaning against the beast of nature that is God's tree, rooted to the ground. Despite the hard and rough sensation prickling throughout my body, the mighty plant effectivly supports and holds my upper back, making it a useful recorce of nature. As I think, and let out a long lasting sigh, a powerful wave of wind swarms through my hair and invaids the privacy of my nostrils, leaving behind, a sort of burning throughout the walls of my nasal passage. Oddly, and I do realise this is strange, I enjoy this hot sensation. After being arranged and considered in an ordily manner, my current plans are thwarted by the relentless objects of causality that are Naasir and Gavin. Naasir, a fairly tall kid from south africa, his name literally meaning "Defender". If I see Naasir Solarin as anything at all, he's a role model. Hidden inside the wisdom of his personality, I can only ever see a hint of taoism inside the tall black boy. Any action made or any words spoken, they all hold nearest to them the slightest impossibility of perfection.

"Ethan," He says calmly, "Do you enjoy standing in the rain?".

"Rain doesn't matter. What matter's is the person in the rain." I reply. Whenever I talk to him I try to lengthen the logic in my words to match his own. It does not seem to work. He pats me on the back.

"You're learning, friend." He says.


End file.
